


There is a place I know, inside the forest.

by Chancesin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sad Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:54:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chancesin/pseuds/Chancesin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a place I know, inside the forest. It has pine needles on the ground and the smell of mushrooms in the fall, of wet wood in the winter. There is a cottage in this place. A grey cottage, weather-worn and old; nobody goes there, except for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a place I know, inside the forest.

There is a place I know, inside the forest. It has pine needles on the ground and the smell of mushrooms in the fall, of wet wood in the winter. There is a cottage in this place. A grey cottage, weather-worn and old; nobody goes there, except for them.

I saw them first in winter; they were young then. He was with them. The smallest one was damaged, the scent of him sweet and thick in the air. They kept a fire going night and day, and for weeks there was only smoke and blood and children’s sweat. In the morning when the boys were sleeping, the father cleaned his guns and cried. He smelled of leather; of iron, salt and leather. They left in snowfall, their prints vanishing within the hour, although the blood scent lingered on for weeks.

They came back in summer. There was shouting, deep in the still, oppressive heat and then a leaden silence. When the father left, the boys went swimming in the river, bare bodies smelling of soap and sweat and summer flowers. I saw them dry off in the grass, all pale skin and soft breaths, soft hair. They were so fragile then.

After summer, they were gone for long. There was a flood and the tree with their marks on it washed down the river. The roof of the woodshed caved in when the snow was wet. Things started growing inside it. The blanket on the cottage porch lost its color and melded with the rough, grey floorboards. Eventually even the blood smell from the little one on their mattress faded, though the stain remained.

And then on a midwinter morning they returned with the smell of other creatures on them; with the scent of dangerous things and the scent of dead things. They were tall now, like their father; not fragile. They had gunpowder and salt and lit a fire in the cottage, sending smoke towards the heavens. And in the dead of night I heard their hitching breaths above the soft, white snowfall, saw their naked shapes in firelight through frosted windows. The tall one growled when he came, mouth locked onto the other’s shoulder.

They returned for many winters after that. Sometimes they were quiet, the tall one sitting on the porch and the other cleaning guns and making coffee. Sometimes they were damaged, the blood scent thick in the air, their sigils bright on the walls. And then sometimes beneath the salt and blood and leather, there was that bittersweet, sticky smell of them that fogged up the windows. The tall one always growled like a feral creature then; and in the morning, he was always quiet.

And then one winter the tall one did not come. The other trudged through the rotten snow, sat on the wet porch in silence. He was older now, older than the father had been. He removed his gloves and touched the grey, rough floorboards. Went inside the cottage, filled the air with kerosene. Stood on the porch and struck a match, the fire bright against the night. And then he dropped his flame onto the snow and walked away. The kerosene smell filled the forest for months. It was spring before I went inside and saw the hole in the mattress covers. After that I followed the river and the river took me downstream.

But there is a place I know, inside the forest. It has pine needles on the ground and the smell of mushrooms in the fall, of wet wood in the winter. There is a cottage in this place. A grey cottage, weather-worn and old; but nobody goes there now.


End file.
